


it's dry under your cloud

by orphan_account



Series: a little soon (to bring you home) [1]
Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon Related, Light Angst, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 13:11:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10537125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Snafu says, “I guess we done killin’ people now,” like it’s a joke. Eugene only shoots him a withering look instead of mustering up the energy to reply.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is solely based upon the hbo war series.
> 
> sorry for any typos.
> 
> title taken from 'bridge' by buddy holiday.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There’s no such thing as coming home whole, Eugene knows. He can feel it and knows it as gospel as soon as they’re told the war is over. The Japs surrendered; Europe was already won; and now it’s time to go home, finally.

It doesn’t seem real. Eugene’s partly convinced that he left a chunk of himself sleeping fitfully in a foxhole on Okinawa in the mud among the shell casings and the bodies. Or maybe the war ate it up in one sitting as soon as he landed—or, perhaps, it took it piece by piece until there was a hole in him. That part’s not really clear to him. He’s aware of his body moving—of hot water sloshing across his skin, of the grime and the dust and the mud washing away, of the sun shining down on him, dry and clean—for the first time in months. He’s aware, yes, but he doesn’t let go of his gun, not until it’s asked he return it.

There isn’t much a use for rifles anymore, apparently. Or else, someone has enough common sense to prevent shell-shocked soldiers from having direct access to firearms when peacetime is supposed to be upon them.

To that, Snafu says, “I guess we done killin’ people now,” like it’s a joke. Eugene only shoots him a withering look instead of mustering up the energy to reply.

They’re not _allowed_ not to have weapons, per se; they just—can’t get to them as easily. That alone makes the collection of companies uneasy, but the staff onboard would prefer uneasy men to armed marines who might shoot a man who came out of the dark the wrong way.

As far as Eugene knows, Burgie is the only one who’s got some sort of a plan for post-war life. He’s apprehensive about returning to the States, sure—they all are—but he’s got a girl in Australia, a nice young lady who he plans on marrying, so most of him is ready to go. No one will believe it until they set foot on American soil, they all know, but, as they ship out towards home and get closer, the men find that parts of themselves are aching badly to return home again after so many months of living in the mud, thinking they wouldn’t come back from it.

Burgie, out of the three of them, is the only one who’s got some sort of plan. Eugene doesn’t know about himself—doesn’t quite know how he’s going to go about explaining that to his mother and father—and Snafu hasn’t said a word about it, not once, not since they first met.

“Gonna get yo’self a girl, Burgie,” Snafu half-drawls, half-jeers from the bunk beside Eugene’s. Burgie is sitting across from them on the ship. They’re nearly halfway home and most of the men can’t stay still with their wants brimming. “Mighty fine of you.” He blinks slow in the din as the healthy clamor around them swells up to another level in volume, and then eyes Eugene. “What ‘bout you, Sledgehammer?” His smile is thin, his dark eyes full of laughter his chest won’t let go of. “You goin’ to get a girl, too?” He scoots closer.

In spite of everything— _everything_ —that’s happened since Eugene left the States, he feels the back of his neck grow hot with embarrassment. Burgie’s smile is bright as Snafu lets out a warm, low laugh and claps his hand on Eugene’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Eugene,” he says—

And the rest of what Snafu says is lost to the roar of conversation around them as a group of marines squeeze their way through the bunks towards their own racks. A hand is still on his shoulder, though, and he thinks, _that’s real_. Out of all the things he’s heard and felt since they told him they were going home, that touch is real, and it’s like it’s the only thing keeping him from floating back to Okinawa and the mud and the dead. It just might be. When they got onto the docks, half the men looked like they thought they were in a dream. When they boarded the ship, it didn’t even register with them that they were leaving the islands until someone hit their head on their way down to below deck and nearly split their skull open. Snafu laughed at that, and Burgie only shook his head, and it was only then that Eugene seemed to remember himself.

He can feel it in his bones: the war, the mud, visions of gold dug out of bleeding maws. But he’s not there, not in thick of it, not how he was. Here, he’s clean, dry, comfortably warm—and not alone. That just might be the worst part, he thinks, about the prospect of going home: when he comes back, he’ll be alone. Burgie and Snafu, plans aside, won’t be going with him. There aren’t any bone-filled foxholes to fill in Alabama or Japs to gun down in the ugly night. No more flares will light up the sky. The only gun he expects to be fired is his father’s hunting rifle. The only war—

“Hey, Sledgehammer,” Snafu says, calling Eugene back to the present, “let’s get some chow.” Blinking, he realizes that he’s been pulled to his feet. “Heard they got potatoes.” He doesn’t remember them moving or taking him out of his bunk.

“Potatoes,” Eugene echoes numbly. Like he’s never heard of them before.

“I don’t believe it, neither,” Snafu shrugs a shoulder, his words slurring and coming apart as they squeeze through the doorway out into the corridor. Burgie’s ahead of them, leading the way, and, for the first time since being onboard, Eugene realizes just how hungry he is. The crowded hallway is packed floor to ceiling with the smell of floor wax and cigarettes. Men lean out of doorways to flick their cigarette butts to the floor; others trip out of theirs, most likely headed for the deck.

There’s all of that—the chatter, the noise, the close quarters—and there’s the fact that Snafu keeps bumping Eugene’s shoulder as they head on. Tight now, it feels a lot like he just woke up for the first time. Funny how the first face he sees seems to always be Snafu’s when he comes out of a fog like that, he thinks, but then he’s being pulled towards the line for chow, out of his head, just like that. Well, not quite, but it does the trick. It’s enough. And it’s real, too, realer than anything else that’s happened since second squad was pulled off the beach.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
